by Chris Ward
A low growl came from under the hood. ‘Divan,’ it said again.
‘That’s the name he gave you,’ Patrick said. ‘But that’s not your real name, is it? You’re Race. Race Devan.’
The huddle of blankets shifted violently, the creature springing forward as the robes fell away.
‘Divan!’ it hissed, the firelight illuminating the full horror of its misshapen, surgically altered body as it loomed over the fire, before withdrawing again, pulling the cloak tight and reducing itself into a black shadow huddled on the other side of the fire.
Patrick said nothing. His heart was beating too hard to do anything other than stare at the shadow and recall his brother’s eyes staring over the doglike snout.
The Huntsman didn’t move as Patrick finished picking at the half-charred, half-raw remains of the rabbit it had caught. He realised he was hungry enough to eat even something that repulsed him, and wondered if he was exhausted enough to sleep.
He found it unlikely.
He awoke to find Divan crouching beside him. The fire had gone out in the night, and every muscle in Patrick’s body ached, as though a tank had driven over him while he slept.
‘Up,’ the Huntsman said. ‘Go now.’
‘All right, I’m coming.’
Patrick climbed to his feet. His thighs burned, and he wondered how he could walk, let alone maintain the Huntsman’s relentless pace.
Divan climbed over the gate and had vanished from sight while Patrick was still kicking away the embers of the fire. Groaning, he hurried in pursuit, wishing that at the very least he had brought the stolen bike.
Half an hour later, with Patrick struggling to keep up, the Huntsman paused at a crossroads. He pointed straight ahead, then lifted another arm and pointed down the branch to the left.
‘Trails,’ he said.
‘She must have doubled back,’ Patrick gasped as he leant over, breathing hard. ‘Which is freshest?’
‘This.’ Divan turned left. ‘Go.’
The creature stood up and started to move forward, but after a few steps he stopped and turned back.
‘Carry.’
‘What? No, I’m fine—’
Divan reached him in a blur of motion, dropping low, pummeling Patrick in the midriff and flinging him up into the air. For a couple of seconds he was airborne. Then he was landing across the Huntsman’s shoulders.
‘Carry,’ Divan said again, breaking into a run, moving no slower than he had been before, one arm hooked around Patrick’s waist as he was carried like a bag of potatoes across the creature’s shoulders.
As they moved—perhaps the most uncomfortable form of transport Patrick had ever experienced—he could feel the creature’s strength in its shoulders and arms, and at times hard nodes and angles would poke into him which couldn’t be human flesh or bone, but had to be metal or carbon fibre inserted into the creature’s body.
Patrick had to keep reminding himself that at least part of what carried him was his brother, Race.
They were running along an old canal path below a raised motorway overpass when Patrick heard sirens. He had been thinking about his childhood and playing with his older brother, so he blurted out, ‘Race, stop!’ before he could check his words.
Instantly the Huntsman paused, reached up, and flung Patrick into the grass beside the path. Patrick landed hard, winding himself, and rolled over, gasping for breath to find the Huntsman’s snarling face looming over him.
‘Divan!’ it snarled. ‘Not Race. Divan!’
Patrick’s heart was pounding. How much control the creature might have, or how much influence over its actions Doctor Crow had, Patrick didn’t know. In its eyes shone death and murder, the ability to rip him to pieces in seconds.
‘I’m sorry, I forgot,’ he said, heart pounding.
The sirens passed by overhead, fading again into the distance. Divan growled at him, Race’s bloodshot eyes blazing over its drooling snout. Up so close, Patrick could see how the dog’s snout wasn’t just sewn on, but its flesh literally fused into his brother’s face, its tendons and bones likely connected too.
It was dark surgical mastery, something Patrick couldn’t imagine even the government was capable of, something only seen in the horrific movies Race had once delighted in making his younger brother watch.
‘You were a fucking asshole,’ Patrick said before he could stop himself. ‘Like, you were my brother, but you were an utter cunt to me at times. And I know you used to spy on Suzanne, because she saw you. Man, you were a pervert.’ He started laughing, the feeling at first strange, then becoming a delirious deluge as tears streamed down his cheeks. ‘You know she hated you, don’t you? Isn’t it such an irony that you’re now helping me find her, you peeping Tom prick.’
Divan growled. It turned away, claws scraping at the ground, before swinging back, teeth bared.
‘Suzanne,’ it growled, drawing the word out as though it triggered a long-suppressed memory.
‘She was all mine, Race,’ Patrick said. Then, winking at the monster Race had become, he said, ‘And she was the best fuck in the world.’
Divan snarled. He started forward, then thought better of it and circled back around into the grass.
‘Come on, I know you’re in there, Race,’ Patrick said. ‘I don’t know what the hell got done to you, but you’re still my brother. After we find Suzanne, I’ll find someone to fix you, I promise.’
The Huntsman looked as though it were calming down. It lowered itself to the ground, snout almost touching the dirt path. Then, with a sudden roar, it flung its head upward and howled, the sound so loud Patrick gasped and clapped hands over his ears.
‘You’ll attract attention,’ he said, when the Huntsman looked back at him.
‘Divan,’ the Huntsman answered, as though that answered everything. Then, with a sudden flurry of movement, it rushed forward, scooped Patrick up, and threw him over its shoulder.
In moments they were running along the path, Divan’s bare feet pattering over the ground. For all the discomfort of the ride, Patrick was at least glad he no longer had to give chase.
At one point Patrick even fell into a partial doze. When he came to, there was a taste of salt in the air, and he caught glimpses of the sea through cuts in the hills.
Divan, still running hard as though he hadn’t paused in hours, dashed past a sign announcing PORLOCK. Patrick had heard of it, remembering it as a sleepy coastal village famous for its unnaturally large population of elderly residents.
At another junction the Huntsman paused, squatted low to the ground, and sniffed at the road. Patrick saw a chance to climb off, and massaged his stiff body as Divan examined the scents it had found.
Twilight had fallen, and through gaps in the trees Patrick could just make out the orange glow of a sunset glittering on water and the lights of a village along the shore.
‘Are they close?’ he asked. ‘Race, can you smell her?’
The Huntsman looked back, and for a moment Patrick though he had pushed it too far on its identity. But instead of attacking him, its lips drew back in a hideous attempt at a grin.
‘Close,’ it said.
‘Which way?’
‘Both. On foot.’
‘She’s walking? Alone?’
‘Both.’
Patrick frowned. Did that mean she had sometimes walked alone, or had Kelly been with her? Or someone else?
He walked to the roadside and peered down through the trees. The thought of taking Divan into a village filled him with dread. He didn’t know how much control he had over it, but he said, ‘Let’s check uphill first. Maybe they made a camp.’
A few minutes later Divan turned off the road, taking a barely noticeable lane heading into the trees. The sun had gone down and Patrick could hardly see where he was walking, but he sensed urgency in the Huntsman, as though they were nearly at their journey’s end.
And then, through the trees, he saw it.
A land cruiser, parked up bene
ath the rusting struts of a towering electricity pylon.
‘We’ve found them,’ he muttered.
Beside him, the Huntsman that used to be his brother made a strange grunting sound, like a nervous laugh.
35
Urla
Urla lifted a hand and patted Tommy Crown on the side of his face, on the worst of his bruises, delighting in the hissed intake of breath.
‘You did well,’ she said. ‘The game, however, is not over. Now we have to flush out this friend of yours.’
‘Those creatures are deadly,’ Tommy said. ‘Your only chance is surprise. If he knows you’re coming, he’ll either run or he’ll send them out to create carnage like you couldn’t imagine.’
‘Oh, Mr. Crown,’ Urla said, shaking her head and wishing she felt as much conviction as she was trying to show. ‘You underestimate the Department of Civil Affairs. The only reason you stayed at large so long was because everything you do is part of an intricate web. We know everything. We have informers everywhere.’
It was a steaming heap of bullshit, and he didn’t look convinced.
‘It’s on your head,’ he said. ‘I told you what you asked, but to make sure, I’d nuke the place. I’ve seen the shit he’s doing in there up close. He’s not a man you want to cross.’
‘In the way you have done,’ Urla said. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘You didn’t give me much choice, you worthless bitch.’
Urla whistled through her teeth. ‘I have plenty more men who would like some time alone with you,’ she said.
Tommy rolled his eyes. ‘Oh come on, my dick’s getting sore. Can’t they suck each other?’
Behind him, Urla noticed Justin snigger, before he made an obvious play of coughing into his hand.
‘You’re going with them,’ Urla said, and this time the defiance in Tommy’s eyes faded a little. ‘You’ll be there on our front line, so if anything goes wrong … you’ll be the first to face it. Let’s just hope you told us the whole truth.’ She turned to the agents either side of him. ‘Take him away and prepare the task force.’
As soon as he was gone, Urla approached Justin. He gave her a playful smile, but she reached down and grabbed his crotch through his trousers, squeezing until he winced.
‘Take that damn smirk off your face. You think he’s funny, do you?’
‘Come on, it was just a joke—’
Urla let go, but before Justin could relax, she slapped him hard across the face. ‘Maxim Cale will be here within hours. Do you think that’s a joke? I’ve had to send half my agents to take out this Doctor Crow because Bristol has ignored my request for backup. Before you say it, no, I don’t think we have enough firepower, but what am I supposed to do? We can’t cancel tomorrow’s parade. This is my—our—only chance to gain favour with our future prime minister.’
She had corrected the slip as soon as she said it, but Justin’s eyes told her everything. He might have enjoyed being her bedfellow, but she had made her position clear. That was all he was, and all he would ever be.
‘I’m sure it will go ahead without a problem,’ he said, unable to meet her eyes.
‘Justin, I—’
Before she could fumble her way through some stupid excuse, that he actually meant more to her than a decent lay a couple of times a week, and that she wouldn’t throw him out with the trash at the first opportunity to lift herself higher in the DCA’s ranks, that she wasn’t a self-serving bitch who would bend over to take the flagpole on Maxim Cale’s processional limousine if it was to her own benefit … Justin’s mobile phone rang.
He watched her as he lifted it to his ear. A whisper of voices came from the receiver, then Justin’s eyes widened.
‘He’s early,’ Justin said. ‘He’s already here.’
Urla was sweating as she took her place between the town mayor and the chief of police, two men who ostentatiously stood up to shake Maxim Cale’s hand first, despite both answering to her authority. As she reached out to take the hand of the towering figure in front of her, her heart was pounding enough to make her fingers tremble.
Her expectations had been one thing, but the reality was quite another. Maxim Cale wasn’t just tall, he was enormous, towering at least seven feet high, and as wide at the shoulder as two men. His hand was large enough to cup hers like a child’s, and when she shook it she felt a bullish strength in his arm, as though he could lift her up and toss her across the room as if he were throwing a ball.
Stressing a skin condition that made him sensitive to light, he had requested the lights be dimmed, but even inside he wore sunglasses which shielded his eyes. His face, though, was grey-white, like the colour of paper left out in the sun. His jawline was carved, his mouth and cheeks showing a strange ageless quality. His close-cropped hair was perfectly white.
‘I will speak with you in private,’ he said, and all Urla could do was give a frantic nod.
With the formal greetings over with, her agents instructed his orderlies in moving Maxim Cale’s entourage into a series of guest rooms and suites on the upper floor. Urla, dismissing the mayor and chief of police with a little more forcefulness than was necessary, led Maxim Cale to her own office.
‘It is our great honour to have you visit,’ she said, instructing Justin to prepare tea before closing the door on her inner office.
‘I am but a politician,’ he said. ‘It is I who is honoured.’
‘You are the next leader of our country.’
He smiled. ‘If the voters agree. We shall see on that.’
‘I have no doubt. Our current government is weak, rudderless….’
Maxim Cale gave a short laugh, a booming sound like a foghorn misfiring. ‘A lot of pressure will be on whoever takes over to sort out the current mess.’
‘The country needs a strong leader. I have no doubt you are that man.’
‘I will do my best to repay your faith in my abilities.’
They traded honourific praise for a while longer, before Urla turned the conversation to her department’s jurisdiction and the work she had implemented. She had prepared a slideshow presentation which she displayed on a pull-down screen, Maxim Cale nodding thoughtfully as he stood back in the dark. When she was finished, she turned back, looking for his reaction, but he was still staring at where the screen had been, as though unaware the presentation had ended.
‘Mr. Cale?’
He looked at her, as though broken from a trance. ‘Yes?’
‘I was wondering about your thoughts on the developments the DCA has made in my jurisdiction.’
‘Yes … wonderful, wonderful. You have done well, Ms. Wynne.’
Urla smiled, hiding her disappointment. He sounded as though he had missed the whole thing.
‘You approve?’
He lifted a hand and removed his sunglasses. Even in the shadows, Urla shivered as she saw they burned a crimson red.
‘There is unrest here,’ he said. ‘I have felt it, seen it in your agents’ eyes. Your people are revolting, turning against you. I am looking for unity, not division.’
‘I … I … it’s under control.’
‘I’m afraid I must turn down your offer to stay for tomorrow’s event. There are other places I need to visit. Time is of the essence with the election looming.’
‘No, please, it’s taken so much preparation.’
Maxim Cale frowned as he stared past her. She saw confusion in his face, indecision.
‘Please,’ she said again. ‘Everything you might have noticed, it’s nothing. It’s under control.’
Maxim Cale looked at her. For a moment she saw a hint of vulnerability, that he was no more than an imposter playing a dangerous game. Then he replaced the sunglasses on his face, and with the hiding of his eyes the feeling died. He was once more in control.
‘Very well. I will appreciate your hospitality for one more day before I return to my campaign trail.’
Urla lowered her head. ‘You have given me the greatest hon
our.’
His reply, when it came, didn’t seem to come in the form of words at all, but thoughts in her head:
Don’t disappoint me.
36
Kurou
Kurou chuckled as he watched the two brothers enjoying their reunion. For a while it had amused him to see Patrick struggling to keep up with Divan—oh, the frailties of humanity!—but it seemed Divan had felt a change of heart and carried his younger brother instead. Through the viewer implanted into one of Divan’s eyes, Patrick had become just the occasion flailing leg or arm as Divan raced in pursuit of Suzanne.
On a scientific level, Kurou was impressed. Divan had managed to track the girl with ease. It would take a greater analysis to determine whether Divan was tracking her scent directly, or had realised that she had taken a vehicle and reverted to track it instead, following the trail until the girl’s resumed. Testing, testing. He had a lot of work to do if he was to achieve complete perfection of his new soldiers, and that would require the DCA to leave him alone.
Somehow, he doubted that would be the case.
An alarm sounded on another computer, and Kurou shifted across to check its status. He had sent several of his new Huntsmen to keep watch around the local area, and one was trying to contact him.
He replayed a highlighted section of video footage. From a hiding place near the main road into the town, the Huntsman had witnessed the arrival of a four-car convoy. Tinted windows were no match for his Huntsmen’s adapted vision. Zooming in, running some filters, and then refocusing revealed Kurou’s deepest fear.
His old adversary, Maxim Cale, had arrived.
From a drawer he took a smaller handheld tablet and slipped it into a pocket of his jacket. Then, donning his top hat and monocle, he headed for a garage at the factory’s rear.
‘Laurette, I have some business to take care of,’ he said, calling his assistant forward. ‘I leave you in charge. Secure our perimeter and let no one inside bar myself. If Tommy Crown shows up, politely request that he make an appointment. If you need to contact me, use the third computer from the left. Press the red button.’ He winked, the monocle falling loose. He caught it with one hand, shrugged, and then replaced it in front of his blind eye. ‘I will be back soon. Hold the fort and keep it tidy, my dear.’